0066

Pick another pint or so of raspberries, and some green beans, then another little rainstorm, so I eat lunch and rest a bit.

Take the new one-pint toilet out of its box. I realize I need to ask a couple more questions about installing this before I start. The contrast strikes me again: this is state of the art stuff here. Like the Amish, I appreciate good technology, but reserve the right to reject the bulk that isn't so good.

Along with other veggies, I pick a few first ears of sweet corn for supper. Tastes yummy, but will be even better in just a few more days.

Another bath in the real tub. I could get used to this.

0059

A few watermelons are beginning to swell. 2nd pea patch is germinating. A couple more Yukons from Lenore's peelings are coming up, but the others seems to be dead, so I plant some more peas in that spot. The onions pulled a couple days ago seem OK, so I hang them up in the garage.

I dig a few new potatoes, and consider, with satisfaction, how this is really working out OK. Some setbacks, but the whole industrial world could implode, and I would survive quite nicely, wouldn't I? Then I look at the potato fork in my hands, a gift from my Dad. This implement was made in a factory. Would it work to dig potatoes with a stick? And how would I fashion the stick, with no ax or chisel? OK, so I cannot follow my idea to the extreme. The Amish principle again comes to mind: draw a line, and don't cross it. Thus far, and no farther.

I dine sumptuously as usual on veggies and berries, but am running low on eggs and bread. Maybe a trip into town tomorrow. It's hot and muggy; thunderstorms predicted for tonight.

0020

Coming back from my morning garden rounds, I notice blossoms on the old apple tree east of the house. He who plants a tree proclaims hope for the future. I realize, with a note of humility, that I am someone else's future, the beneficiary of their foresight in planting this tree.

Good working weather today, a light breeze, blue sky with scattered fleecy clouds, and my energy level is high. I take advantage, planting a few more items - carrots, beets, and keeping ahead of the weeds, more or less. Mid-afternoon, I remember the well, and how it still produces sand. Perhaps it's time to call Willie, and ask what the next step is. Or maybe I should really give it all I've got a few more times.

So, I attach the gutter and start pumping. It soon becomes a workout, a test of my endurance. 50 strokes, starting to break a good sweat. Who needs a weight bench when you've got a well? Why pump iron when you can pump water? 100 strokes. This is where I usually stop for a breather. Pick it up a notch instead. 150 strokes, getting a second wind. Pump harder. I still see sand coming out. I try to envision the bottom of the well. Try to pump hard enough, fast enough, to suck all that sand out. 200 strokes. My heart is racing, my arms aching. Then it happens.

The handle suddenly goes slack, and my downstroke almost makes me fall down. I keep pumping a few more times, but there's no resistance. And there's no water coming out, either. Oh, wonderful. I've broken my pump.

I stand and look helplessly at my non-functioning well. Numbly, dumbly, I walk through the garden and down to the creek. Water. Pretty basic stuff. I vaguely wonder whether a well is all that necessary. The deer and rabbits and birds get by with the water in creeks and ditches and swamps. But - - no, I am a man, not an animal. A product of modern human society. I wouldn't trust my fragile system to swamp water. Even the Amish have wells.

Back in the house, I note with chagrin that, for all the water I've just pumped, I have only about 3 gallons at the ready. And no way to pump more. I'll have to drive to town tomorrow, get jugs of tap water again, and call Willie.

0017

Necessity is the mother of invention. As I continue to dig and plant and think, I begin to realize that this is how I will have to proceed. I will have to draw a line like the Amish. Thus far, and no farther. This will become my self-imposed necessity, impelling me to invent things and discover techniques and figure out the concrete specific ways to live the non-consumerist life as best I can.

As a high priority, because of the fossil fuel involved, I have to stop commuting back and forth so much; this has to be my permanent base. Consequently, getting the well fixed is high on my to-do list. Being able to prepare good meals for myself is another. (A guy can go only so long on baloney sandwiches and fried eggs and potatoes.)

So, I've decided to compromise, at least for now, on a lesser point, and get set up with a freezer and refrigerator. The decision was made easier when I saw both of these items, plus a real bathtub all offered as give-aways in the local shopper. So, I called a local hauler and paid $50 to have this stuff, and my wringer washer, brought out here today. I also picked up some real groceries while in town, and some odds and ends dishes at a rummage sale.

0013

The Amish genius lies in drawing a line. Contrary to the popular stereotype, they are not anti-technology, but carefully choose what gadgets they will allow to become part of their lives. So much and no further.

Well, I'm not Amish, and I don't have a council of elders to draw the line for me, so I'll have to draw one myself. I'm just not sure yet where to draw it.

This is the conversation I have with myself as I drive back to my new home, since I have just spent $50 getting an old rototiller fixed up. It's in the back end of my little Tercel along with some more tools, planks, etc. (maybe a light pickup would be better in the long run?) I also have three buckets full of strawberry plants, thinnings from our old city garden. I've spent the morning doing that, with the permission of the new owners.

Willie, the local well expert, will drop by sometime this week to look at my well, and advise me. I managed to get hold of him over the weekend (maybe I should get my own phone service, too.)

After unloading, I spend the afternoon and into the evening digging ten circles, about 6 feet in diameter, in a new location, close to the east woods, behind the house. Into each circle I transplant 10 or 12 strawberry plants, and give them each a douse of water. Sometime later, before they start to run, I will dig between the circles. It's good to have some land. This strawberry patch alone will be twice the size of the entire city garden.